Going Up
by magfreak
Summary: Sybil and Tom meet when they get stuck in an elevator.


_From a prompt from the lovely angiemagz: Tom and Sybil meet for the first time ... Theyre stuck in a lift for 2hours..._

* * *

"Good run, Miss Crawley?"

"Still getting used to this humidity, I'm afraid," Sybil answered, wiping some sweat off her forehead.

"And how's your day so far?"

Sybil smiled at her building's doorman on her way to the lift. "Uneventful."

"For me those are the best kind of days," she heard him call out to her.

Sybil laughed as she hit the call button.

Having to deal with one broken arm, three bouts of the flu, and some projectile vomiting would be quite eventful indeed for just about anyone else, but it was just another day at the office for your run of the mill pediatric nurse.

Sybil was nearing the end of her first month living and working in New York and though the climate was a far cry from the rainy London weather she was used to, so far, she was loving life across the pond. She was never one to live as ostentatiously as her family's money might have allowed her, but when her grandmother Martha offered her a room in her Upper East Side high rise, while she looked for her own apartment, Sybil couldn't turn down the view and proximity to Central Park. She'd never been much of a runner, but now, it seemed, she was a genuine devotee.

When the elevator finally opened, Sybil stepped in and pressed the button for the penthouse.

To her surprise, the doors opened again on the seventh floor. An annoyed looking man came in and practically punched the button for the lobby.

"Um, I'm going up," she said quietly.

"Oh!" He tried to stop the doors from closing, but he didn't step forward in time. Sybil smiled to herself seeing his shoulders sink. He let out a sigh and said, "Well, it's not like I have anywhere to be."

As the elevator resumed its climb to the top floor, the man turned toward her and Sybil saw a pair of remarkable blue eyes on a remarkably handsome face. She could see a bit of weariness in him, but he wore it well. Sybil looked back down at her sweaty running shorts and tank top and, though she was not usually one to bother with her appearance, rather wished that she'd run across him looking a tiny bit closer to her best.

When she looked up, he was still watching her, a hint of a smile on his lips.

He'd allowed himself a momentary glimpse of her shapely legs when Sybil had looked away, and had Sybil been able to get into his head in that moment, she'd realize that he had absolutely no complaints about her attire.

"Long day?" She asked.

"Long year," he said with a sigh.

"Well, my—"

A loud noise above them interrupted Sybil and the elevator came to an abrupt halt. The elevator car jerked to a stop, taking them both by surprise, and they fell into each other.

"Are you all right?" He asked, holding Sybil by the shoulders.

_God, he smells good, _she thought, then pulled herself back thinking of the unappealing musk she was sure to be giving off after 45 minutes of running in the park.

"Sorry," she said, stepping away.

They looked at each other for a long moment, but eventually he turned away, and Sybil bit her lip trying to hold back the smile she felt coming on as she watched a slight blush come over his cheeks.

"We're stopped," he said, looking at the button panel and pushing the lobby button several times. Nothing happened.

"I guess we have," she said. She leaned over him to see the panel then quickly straightened again when he turned back toward her.

"I'll call the front desk," she said, pulling out her phone from her pocket.

She tapped in the number and after two rings the doorman answered.

"Hi Jim, it's Sybil Crawley. I'm in one of the lifts—er, elevator and it's stopped moving."

She'd turned away slightly as she listened, giving the man another opportunity to watch her.

He was not one to condone ogling women, but he simply couldn't help himself. She was quite stunning—it was a natural beauty that in his eyes was enhanced by her physical exertion. Her checks were flush and the sheen of sweat on her skin was making her practically glow. Her brown, slightly curly hair was pulled back into a pony tail. His eyes went over the gentle slope of her neck as she leaned her head to the side to listen to the person on the other end of the line, and he saw the tiny wisps of hair curling up at the nape. He wondered what it would be like to run his fingers through them.

He didn't hear much of her end of the conversation, but the concerned look on her face told him that she hadn't gotten good news.

"Apparently, this one's been acting up lately. He's called a repairman, but it'll be a half-hour before he's here. The few times this has happened this week, apparently the lift rights itself after a while, so he said not to try to climb out, lest that happens and we get a limb chopped off."

"So we're stuck?"

She nodded. "For the time being."

"Fecking hell," he said with a sigh. Then he looked at her again.

_I could have done far worse for company_, he thought, not knowing that she was thinking more or less the same thing.

He moved to the wall adjacent to the button panel and slid down to the floor, sitting with his legs extended out in front of him. "Might as well get comfortable."

Despite the circumstances, Sybil smiled again, noting for the first time, his accent. "Are you . . . Irish?" She asked as she sat against the back wall, pulling her knees into herself.

"Yeah," he said. "You're not a native either, are you?"

"U.K. Yorkshire."

"What brings you to New York? You're not dressed like a tourist, so I'll assume this is home away from home?"

Sybil nodded. "I moved here from London about a month ago. Just wanted a change of scenery, I suppose. I'm a nurse at Mount Sinai."

His brow furrowed as he answered.

"What?"

"You can afford this building on a nurse's pay?"

Sybil smiled, embarrassed. It was a comment she'd heard before. "I live with my gran. She's what Americans would call old money."

He laughed, and the sound filled the tiny space of the elevator. She liked the way the laughter crinkled the sides of his eyes.

"I'm Tom," he said leaning over extending his hand. "Tom Branson."

His handshake was warm and reassuring. Sybil felt her heart rate speed up ever so slightly.

"Sybil Crawley," she said in response. She let go of his hand, and he sat back again, never taking his eyes off her. "You don't live here, do you?"

"Why? Don't I look the part of an Upper East Sider?"

Sybil smiled sheepishly. "No, it's not that, it's just . . . I think I'd remember if I'd seen you before."

"Well, I certainly wouldn't forget you."

Sybil bit her lip again, unsure of how to respond. She wasn't much of a flirt. What she'd said had just sort of slipped out.

Tom smiled. "I was interviewing someone—or rather, being interviewed in order to interview them."

She looked at him again, this time with confusion in her features. "What?"

"Do you know Wilhelmina Venice?"

"The opera singer? Yes—well, I've not met her, but I know she lives in the building."

"She wants to write a memoir, so she's meeting with potential ghosts."

"Ghosts?"

"You know how when celebrities or people who have led marginally interesting lives want to write a book except they don't want to be bothered with the actual writing of it? The people who do the writing are ghost writers. That's what I do—or, that's what I'm doing at the moment."

"So judging by your entrance into the lift, I take it didn't go well?"

Tom shrugged. "It was all right. That was more my general frustration at life."

"What frustrates you about your life?"

He looked at her with a smirk. "Are you just making small talk or are you asking a real question?"

She laughed. "Of course, I'm asking a real question!"

He scratched the back of his head and look up to the ceiling. "Let's see, I'm stuck in a lift with a incredibly gorgeous woman and she's asking about what troubles me. I believe common sense calls for me to say something charming that will make her laugh and disguise the aforementioned troubles so I don't scare her away." He looked to her again. "That's my inner monologue. As a writer I can't really get away from it. Frustration No. 1."

"And here I thought you were just trying to be charming," Sybil responded with a smile.

"Is it working?"

"If I answer yes, you'll just keep avoiding my question," she said, trying to suppress her smile.

He laughed again. "I'm good at avoidance. Frustration No. 2."

"Not that good if you haven't made me forget what I asked."

"A general tendency to disappoint. Frustration No. 3."

"I don't find you disappointing," Sybil said.

"Well, you haven't known me long enough."

"Then, tell me about yourself. We've got time."

"That's what I'm afraid of. An hour from now you might realize I don't make very good company."

"You'll just have to take that chance, then, won't you? Besides, you're already ahead of the game."

"How so?" He asked arching an eyebrow.

"I'm rather delighted you stepped into the lift. Otherwise I'd be sitting here alone."

Tom sighed. "When I was young and I dreamed of being a writer, this wasn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Writing other people's stories, you mean, and not your own?"

"Yeah."

"Do you have stories to tell?"

"I'm adrift in an ocean of them."

"So what's stopping you?"

"A lack of faith in the stars. A lack of direction. No anchor. The metaphor was intentional."

"So you need a lighthouse to guide you home?"

"You could say that."

Sybil straightened her legs and dug into the pocket of her shorts for her keychain. She held up a small black square attached to it and when she pressed it with her fingers a beam of light flashed onto the ceiling of the elevator. She directed at his eyes. She had expected him to laugh at her, but instead his face got a bit serious. He stared straight into the light for a moment, then back up at her, breaking into a small smile.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I can be a bit literal sometimes."

"Actually, I think that was exactly what I needed," he said in almost a whisper.

She let go, then pulled the flashlight off the keychain and stretched out her hand to hand it to him. He took it, squeezed it and watched the light dance around the ceiling, then stuck out his hand to give it back to her.

"Keep it," she said.

"I think it would only work on me when the light comes from you."

Sybil bit her lip again and felt goosebumps come over her bare arms.

He noticed and asked, "Are you cold? Here." He shrugged off his sport coat and handed it to her.

She wasn't cold, but she liked the idea of being surrounded by his scent, so she took it and put it on. She took back the flashlight too and put it in his pocket, hoping that later he'd be surprised by finding a reminder of her there.

They sat and looked at each other for a while.

"So what's your story?" He asked finally breaking the thick silence between them.

Sybil looked down with a smile. "Do you know how in fairy stories maids are usually turned into princesses?"

He nodded.

"I'm a princess who wanted to be turned into a maid."

He smiled. "You're still living in a bit of a palace, though."

She laughed. "It's temporary. I am looking to live elsewhere. It'll be nice and dumpy, I can assure you."

He laughed. "Is there a white knight in the picture?" He asked tentatively.

"No, and besides, I don't need a white knight," she said, sticking her chin up in the air playfully.

"That's good. I don't think I'd be much good at saving."

They both laughed.

"Maybe I can save _you_," Sybil said.

"I think you're already doing it."

"Prove it, then, by telling me one of your ocean's worth of stories."

Tom sighed. "All right."

It was the story of a girl—one who looked suspiciously like Sybil—who lived in a castle in the country at the start of the 20th century with everything a girl could want but nothing that she really needed and little do to but wait for something to stir the passions within. That something came in the unlikely form of a stack of political pamphlets about the women's vote given to her by a lowly Irish chauffeur—whose name just happened to be Tom. He was a firebrand who lit a match inside her heart and who made her realize that to be saved she had to save herself. And she did so by convincing him to runaway with her.

As the story went on, Tom and Sybil—the ones in the elevator, not the ones in his story—ended up sitting side by side, leaning against one another, and were caught quite by surprise when the elevator started moving again almost two hours later.

They stood awkwardly and stepped away from one another as the doors opened to reveal the smiling doorman and the harried repairman.

They stepped out, and Sybil, feeling a bit embarrassed by the wish that they could have stayed in their own little world all day, took off his sport coat and handed it back to him.

Tom took it from her and smiled, a bit sadly, it seemed to her, as if he too had wished the elevator had stayed broken a bit longer.

Sensing that the two needed a bit of space, the doorman led the repairman out to the main part of the lobby and away from the elevators.

"So . . ." Tom said, dragging out the word, hoping that this wasn't the end.

"Do you have a pen?" Sybil asked.

Tom took a pen and a small reporter's notebook out of his back pocket and handed them to her.

She wrote down her information and handed the pen and the notebook both back to him.

"Call me and you can tell me how the story ends."

"What if I don't know how it ends?"

"Then we'll just have to live it ourselves and see."


End file.
